The Doctor's List Of Capital Things
by Smidy
Summary: Post Flesh and Stone In which the Doctor arrives at the realization that this particular regeneration was rather fond of capitalization. Take, for instance, his current predicament - it was Extremely Very Not Good.


_AN: Right. So THAT was unexpected. As you will no doubt be able to tell, this is completely the brainchild of my really quite ridiculously romanticised mind. I hope it's ok :)_

* * *

It was whilst the Doctor was flitting around the controls console of the TARDIS, pointedly ignoring Amy's crossed arms, petulant demeanor and _glorious_ pouting that he arrived at the realization that this particular regeneration was rather fond of capitalization.

Take, for instance, his current predicament - it was Extremely Very Not Good.

Amy huffed angrily in the background, slumping against the rail and glaring heatedly into a corner of the TARDIS's cavernous roof.

The Doctor, in contrast, plunged recklessly down this line of pondering, grateful for any escape from the aforementioned pulsating, red-headed black hole of human frustration.

Therefore, he decided that really, this capitalization caper could be separated into 3 distinct sub-groups: Things Of An Almost Ridiculous Nature, Things That Were Unbelievably Infuriating and Things Of The Utmost Importance.

For example, Things Of An Almost Ridiculous Nature may include; Nurse Boy's Nose, The Good Looking One's Slightly Disturbing Pastime, The Amount Of Times He Had _Not_ Regenerated Into A Ginger , Primary Coloured Daleks, Winston's Insistence On Continuing To Smoke Those Dreadful Cigars, and so on.

Things That Were Unbelievably Infuriating covered vast topics such as; Having A Face That, Yet Again, Does Not Seem To Entice People To Listen To It, Human Ignorance, The Part Of Amy's Brain Which Transforms The Phrase "Stay Here" Into "Oh, Please, By All Means, Follow At Your Leisure", River Song's Knowing Smirk, River Song's Entire Being, really, and People Blabbing On Whenever He Is Obviously Cranky.

It was only now, reflecting, that he discovered that, disturbingly, apart from a few variances, Things Of The Utmost Importance seemed to centre undeniably around one particular subject. They were; Amy, Stupid Big Cracks, Amy's Policewoman Costume, Amy's Red Hair, Fish-Fingers And Custard, Amy's Skirts, Amy's Scottish Accent, Amy's Entire Personality, Bow Ties and finally, and most recently, Amy's Infinitely Superior Kissing Technique.

Instantly, _this_ particular mental wandering caused him to lose any semblance of concentration he had left, resulting in him jamming his thumb down on one of the Blue Boringers at precisely the wrong moment, the TARDIS consequently emitting a loud, grating groan of displeasure and casting its inhabitants to the ground.

Oh dear. Extremely Very Not Good.

Amy picked herself up off the floor and eagerly resumed her sulking, smugly adding 'stupid tosser can't even drive his _own_ machine correctly' to her growing list of frustrations, while the Doctor flailed about helplessly. Oh how he wished he could un-think that thought that he had just thought of, because, if he was not much mistaken, that is, he thought he had good reason to think that the particular thought that he had just thought of _may_ actually be impeding on his ability to think straight. Or at least he thought so.

As if sensing his weakness, Amy decided to change tact, standing upright, with a hand on her hip and dangerously narrowed eyes. The Doctor's own eyes widened slightly and he clasped his hands together and began to rock slowly backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet, determined to look anywhere but her.

The offending memory had been tackled, conveniently, into an Impenetrable Mind Box Of Epic Proportions, however, when under the constant, spearing attacks of the _apparently_ symbolic daggers shooting out of Amy's eyes and the overwhelming tidal wave of awkwardness careening around the room, the Doctor quickly realized that this Mind Box was completely, disappointingly, _unhelpfully_ only fit for lower case letters.

He was struggling, gazing indiscriminately at every inch of the room (apart from, of course, the inches that contained _her_) and, in the haze, began to cling to some sliver of composure. He thought of nice things, like Little Shops and chips and suspenders and flashing pens and short lines and green plates and Luna Lovegood and, in the confines of his brain, could imagine himself gradually wrestling the memory into the calming, procrastinating semi-oblivion of "No, I Would Rather Not Think About That Right Now."

But then she shifted her legs slowly and began to sway teasingly towards him, and the memory performed a blindside hook to the left, two jabs to the nose and a headlock smackdown upon his control and burst into the brilliance and radiance of clarity.

He cringed at how fantastically _thick_ he had been, and then secretly grinned when he recalled how she had smelt exactly how he expected 'magnificent' to smell and how she had "accidentally" put her hand There (a place of Utmost Importance of course). And how she had pushed him up against the TARDIS and, well, hello hands! and yet another nod to the Infinitely Superior Kissing Technique. And how, maddeningly at first, but sexily on review, she had met all of his barriers, all of his excuses and blathering reasoning with Her Smirk, Her Wit and Her Unbelievably Turn On-y Eyes.

Oh Rassillion, even his _grammar_ was now a victim of her devastation.

So engrossed was he in this (wonderful, fantastic, majestic) mental torture, that _somehow_ he failed to register where exactly she now was. She stood, unblinkingly, so close to him that the toes of her shoes threatened to rub sensually (blimey, was that even _possible_?) against his, and her lips curled knowingly into that practiced smirk at the appearance of his discomfort.

Amy, Amy's Red Hair, Amy's Skirts, Amy's Scottish Accent, Amy's Entire Personality and Amy's Infinitely Superior Kissing Technique were all within his grasp. Even though he was aware that it would be considerably averse to the prolonging of his life, he tried desperately not to breathe.

She raised a finger and pushed it quite forcibly into his chest. A weird sort of cheerfulness trickled through him from that point, and he busied himself with conjuring images that would halt its spread.

Amy in a long, white nightie covered in Star Whale vomit. His mind, however, was quick to remind him that the moisture, as icky as it may have been, had still served its purpose in making the garment slightly see-through and, thus corrupted, Amy in a Star Whale vomit encrusted white nightie started to seem quite… attractive.

Right, uh, Fiancé Big Nose and Amy kissing. That appeared to be working quite admirably until conjured-Big Nose decided the mood was right to start sneaking his hand up conjured-Amy's shirt. Then, of course, conjured-Big Nose had to be sliced open with a Sycoraxian sword, zapped by an Ood, exterminated by a Dalek, deleted by a Cybeman, torn to shreds by a Werewolf, dropped into a black hole, thrust into a supernova, absorbed into the arse of an Abzorbaloff from Raxicoricofallapatorius' twin planet Clom and finally shot by a Silurian ray gun. Honestly, he had _no idea _why that last one felt slightly ironic.

Then he thought of Amy leaving him.

The cheerfulness stopped and receded painfully out of him, leaving him cold, empty and alone. A new, yet strangely familiar slowness drenched him, rendering his normally hyper and innovative brain sluggish and uninspired and his courage and bravado non-existent.

It was fear.

He inhaled sharply and remembered Rose and Bad Wolf Bay, Rose and the meta-crisis lucky bloody bastard Doctor, Martha's exit, Sarah Jane's disappointment and Donna's ruin.

And then he made a decision.

* * *

He hadn't realized he'd been staring at her lips until they started moving.

"I'll have you know, alright, that I happen to be very sexually desirable and, as it is _my job_, quite good at what I do."

"Oh yes?" he drawled, smirking, chuckling, decided.

She looked incredulous. "Yes!" she spat, "It's not all book, snog and run off, you know. It's a profession. _I'm_ a professional. For your information, my feedback forms denote Employee of the Month status, actually. Employee of the Year, even." She raised her chin cockily in defiance.

"Ah yes." He quirked an eyebrow in challenge. "And this, _insightful,_ feedback comes from the clients right? Those same dateless, what's his name… _Jeff_-like idiots who have to _purchase_ a kiss? Undoubtedly, you'd rate quite outstandingly against a bunch of pixels grinding against each other on a small screen. _Very_ sound evidence of your prowess, I'm sure."

Her Unbelievably Turn On-y Eyes flashed with outrage and, rising to the tips of her toes, she intended to incinerate that ridiculous, completely ungrateful, smirking madman. And his stupid blue box, too.

Fortunately, she was categorically unsuccessful. It started promisingly for her, managing to hiss, "_That_ has _nothing_ to do wi-"

But then she was otherwise inclined. By her profession.

She grinned and pulled him closer, leaning him back against the TARDIS controls and commencing the spontaneous showcase of Amy's Vocation with a searing swipe of her tongue on his bottom lip and a very strategic placement of her thigh.

The Doctor's mind, meanwhile, was as projected, completely incapable of serious and sensible thought. One pondering that he _did_ manage to grasp hold of however, as it skipped joyously by in fast-forward was that Actually Kissing Amy was, at present, almost comically more important than Custard And Fish-Fingers, Stupid Big Cracks and Bow Ties and most definitely deserving of capitalization.

In fact, it was possibly deserving of its own sub-group.


End file.
